Ice Cream
by holme-james
Summary: After a day out on the town (well, the supermarket), some secrets come to light. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

"So I was thinking," John began, licking at the mint ice cream he had in his hands.

They had just returned from grocery shopping on the cloudy Saturday afternoon.

A smirk twitched at Sherlock's lips. He vaguely tried to contain his snide comment but could not stop it from slipping his mouth: "This should be good," he chided. He was searching something related to old-style unicycles on his cell phone, but he let his smirk fully develop when he saw, from the corner of his eye, John glaring at him.

"Very funny. I was just thinking about the bicycle case, and I remembered how some children at my school used to attach playing cards to their bikes. So I was thinking –"

"We check Sir Willow's house for card sets," Sherlock interjected matter-of-factly, and swiftly he whipped out the set of cards in question from his coat pocket.

John looked at him, befuddled, then asked "how did you- never mind."

He cut himself off almost immediately, shaking his head, and continued, "so, any conclusions then?"

Sherlock jumped on the invitation to divulge his thoughts.

"I have a few in mind," he said, "but first, I need to test a theory of a… different case."

At that moment, John's retro MSN beep sounded on his phone to signal a new message. He stopped mid-ice-cream-lick and fumbled around, balancing the two shopping bags of groceries and his ice cream in a circus of precocious physics.

Taking his opening, Sherlock suddenly bent down a tad, tilted his head, leaned in, and licked a spot of ice cream from John's lips; like a viper and its prey. And just as quickly, John gasped and retreated like he had been struck; dropping all he was holding except for his cell phone, which he had been taking out of his front pocket.

"Sherlock wh- what… What was…" he took a deep breath, steadying himself physically and mentally, "What the hell was that?"

Smirking, Sherlock strung out his reply slowly, in a tantalizing sequence of words.

"I was testing a theory I had about you. I sensed that there was some… Tension between us. Sexual tension."

Sensing the objection forming on John's lips, he decided to silence it. He reached up and placed his thumb on John's bottom lip, stroking it for a moment before gently leaning in to touch their lips together. Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he felt some lip movement from the opposing side, but then he was pushed back lightly. He looked down as innocently as he could into John's troubled eyes.

It looked like John started to say many things, but couldn't decide on what to say. Finally, he turned and walked five steps away from Sherlock and took out his phone. John couldn't help but chortle a little out loud when he read the message that he found:

_I like you too._

_-S.H._


	2. Chapter 2

John's brain was muddled with thoughts and emotions. He didn't know whether he should confront Sherlock, pretend like it never happened, or just leave. So he, of course, chose to disappear for a while. Sherlock did the same to him enough, right? Heck, air itself was lucky if it could keep up with Sherlock's coattails.

"Watson," was the only protest he heard as he walked to the curb and hailed a cab.

It was hard to decipher, as always, what Sherlock was feeling. _If he was feeling anything at all, _John thought darkly to himself. He shook his head and got into the cab. He guessed that Sherlock could be amused, but also maybe a tad regretful.

"Oh, who am I kidding," John asked the great above as the taxi driver raised his eyebrow in the rear view mirror, "Sherlock doesn't regret. He just _does_."

"Oh, and take me to a park somewhere fairly far away, cabby. Thanks."

But that brought even more questions to his mind. Since Sherlock did everything for a reason, and likely pre-thought out all the consequences, didn't that mean that he had A: wanted to kiss him or B: was getting a rise out of him (quite literally, the shopping bag sitting on his pants might add) for some sinister, sociopathic reason (or to help further a case)?

On second thought, John didn't know why he even bothered making possibilities like A exist cruelly in his mind.

_That was really top notch_, John thought to himself, _sending that text_. _Just the bloody cherry on the cake. _John had intended to not reply to the text for a while to show his annoyance, but in about two minutes he had begun to feel Sherlock's absence. It was making him twitch his fingers nervously, and he even bit his lip once, before catching himself and stopping.

And so, giving in, he quickly typed out a reply and sent it.

_The hell is wrong with you, Sherlock?_

_Who said I liked you anyways?_

_-you know who_

Almost immediately, he heard his phone 'boop'. His eyebrows shot up. A reply? And already?

His eyebrows sank like ten ton bricks into a frown as he read the text. It was an automated message informing him that the number he was texting was out of service and the message could not be sent.

"Damn it, Sherlock!" he mumbled under his breath, "Taxi driver, take me to Baker Street, please. And hurry."


	3. Chapter 3

John tumbled through the front door and flew up the stairs to find the door to the living room wide open. With his hands on the door entrance way, his heart jumped as panicked thoughts flooded into his brain.

_What if he was kidnapped? What if Moriarty lost his few remaining wits and killed him? What if he was abducted by an angry taxi driver's union revenge group…_

John shook his head and whipped his gun out of his pants pocket, storming into the room.

"_SHERLOCK! Where are you?!"_

John's eyes widened as he saw what he thought was a body crumpled under an intricate brown and blue blanket on the couch. Poofing up at the top of the bundle was hair that looked very much like Sherlock's, but one could never be too safe. Especially when dealing with Sherlock.

"Sherlock! Is that you?" John cried, edging towards the couch and raising the gun steadily to point at the center of the lumpy porridge - shaped thing.

He heard a guttural mumbling emit from the couch, followed by an annoyed-sounding reply. Out from behind the blanket popped Sherlock's face, rosy from sleep, and he didn't even bother to open his eyes.

"John, must you interrupt my sleep _again?_"

Sighing loudly, John flopped down onto the empty place on the couch beside Sherlock's feet. He unloaded his gun and threw it haphazardly onto the coffee table, glaring angrily in Sherlock's general direction.

"How did you know it was me? Nevermind. You probably heard my breathing pattern and a minor heart palpitation, combined with the sound of my shoes, which perhaps had a rock squeezed into one of the rubber valleys of its underside."

Sherlock's arms gracefully emerged from the blanket as he stretched them straight up, then placing them behind his head to prop him up.

"Actually, I just recognized your voice."

John swore under his voice and he could feel heat rising in his face.

"Oh… Right," he said, then, gaining back his thoughts, began speaking quickly, "Sherlock, what the hell is wrong with your phone? I tried texting you back and it said the number no longer existed, and I raced all the way here to see if you were in trouble, and-"

Sherlock halfheartedly swept his hand in the air at John, finally opening his eyes and focusing them on John. John gulped, feeling the intensity of Sherlock's all-seeing eyes on his body, and for some reason he thought Sherlock's eyes reminded him of jade and shale.

"I borrowed some streetwalker's cell phone. Well, when I say _borrowed,_ I mean I rather took it for a minute and tossed it back to her. But, as you may expect, her reflexes weren't that great, and she failed to catch it. I believe it then fell into the sewer system."

John crossed his arms, ready to be angry at Sherlock for anything he said.

"What do you mean, _as you may expect_?"

John regretted opening the air for explanation, because Sherlock nonchalantly stretched his legs out all the way to rest them on John's legs – the left foot being dangerously close to his crotch. He pretended to look interested as Sherlock began talking, while really he was trying to not think about the proximity of said person's little toe to his member.

"Well, _obviously_ I wouldn't have risked taking something from someone on the street without first exhausting the possible consequences. From her eyes and disposition, among other things, you could tell she was a heavy drinker who was depressed. Really, John, do you even think before you ask questions?"

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's minute smirk.

"You're such a…. A bullock," John replied.

Sherlock chuckled darkly.

"A bullock, John? Just one?"

Suddenly John felt Sherlock's foot creep lightly over John's fly and rest there. He gasped, then tried to cover it up with a cough, and Sherlock slowly stretched his foot out, rubbing the heel on John's crotch.

A knock came at the door.


	4. Chapter 4

John startled, and then felt uneasy, for he rarely startled in such mundane circumstances. Sitting on a couch with his mate's foot near his pubic region was hardly comparable to a gunshot sound; and that might have barely made him twitch on the battlefield.

He started reaching for his pistol, but Sherlock shot up effortlessly (as he so often did) and gently touched John's outstretched hand (which he NEVER did).

"Come in, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said calmly.

John looked amazed at the instant deduction and tried not to notice how Sherlock's warm hand still rested softly on his own.

As instructed, Mrs. Hudson came bustling through the door; house keys in her mouth, and bags – mounds, rather – of groceries in each hand.

"Let me help you with that, Mrs. Hudson," John eagerly offered.

He would do anything, he thought, to get out of this tense situation with Sherlock.

"Oh, no thank you, dear. I'll be fine," she responded, "cuppa for you two?"

John began to protest, but upon trying to stand up, he realized with a flush to his face that the boat in his trousers was sailing at half mast.

"Yes, we'll both have a cup of tea, thank you," Sherlock replied for them.

Mrs. Hudson hobbled into the kitchen and out of sight. As if Sherlock had read John's mind, Sherlock's eyes flicked from John's hands -now covering his crotch- and back up to his face, and completed the dance with a trademark I-know-everything-about-you-down-to-your-red-under wear smirk.

"What are _you_ looking at, Sherlock?" he spat, hoping that Sherlock wouldn't answer, and yet knowing deep down that he likely would.

However, all that happened was that Sherlock's smirk grew larger, and he gracefully swung his hips to face John.

John involuntarily gulped, looking over Sherlock's lean form like it was the eighth wonder of the world, while trying to appear straight, tough and absent-minded.

"On second thought, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock called out in his strong voice, almost turning into a baritone purr, while not taking his eyes off John, "We can do without the tea. Why don't you go have a rest."

"Alright, Sher dear! John, you should have something cool to drink – you looked a little flushed!"

His cheeks rising to a hundred degrees, John suddenly found himself reciting a silly American song in his head.

_Well, I'm hot blooded, check it and see  
I got a fever of a hundred and three…_

"Well?" John prompted, trying to drown out the awful song, "What's your problem, Sherlock? I can't do this all night."

"What about… this?"

Without another word, Sherlock sat on John's lap as easy as a cat might; his legs spread and his hands gently lifting John's above his head.

"Sher, wha-" John whispered, flustered.

Sherlock simply thrust his hips forward, grinding his crotch against John's, eliciting a moan from the surprised John. But before John could ask another question, Sherlock had leaned down and pressed his lips to John's, grabbed John's wrists in one hand, and put the other into John's tousled hair.

After some reluctance to kiss back, John gave into his desire. He moved his hips back against Sherlock and opened his lips. He lightly bit down on Sherlock's bottom lip and was surprised to hear a moan in response. At once they were furtively kissing and moving in sync like two deprived teenagers at a midnight party. John would not allow himself to think about anything except what he was feeling right at that moment. If he let himself think about anything else, he thought he might go crazy.

He was just starting to lift up Sherlock's satiny shirt when Mrs. Hudson suddenly cried from the kitchen.

"BOYS!"

They both froze, and now only one thing was running through John's mind:

_Come on baby, do you do more than dance?  
I'm hot blooded, I'm hot blooded….._


	5. Chapter 5

_*warning, a couple possible spoilers from the series if you haven't seen all of them*_

John was reminded of a mother bird as Sherlock's body straightened like a toothpick and he strode, chin held high, into the kitchen to aid Mrs. Hudson. Sometimes John had to smile when he thought of how much Sherlock cared about her. He hoped Sherlock wouldn't also forfeit his lunch onto a plate for Mrs. Hudson (the baby chick in this scenario) to eat.

John hit himself in the face. He really _was_ going mad! _And speaking of going mad, _John thought nervously to himself as he hurriedly stood up, loaded his gun, and with impressive speed and agility tucked his erection into the waistband of his pants.

"Sh-sherlock! You don't just go barging into a room when you quite possibly could be being targeted by shifty buggers!"

He rather awkwardly began walking towards the kitchen, and he'll have you know he only looked down to check if his member was hidden, like, eight times.

"What evidence of such a situation are you referencing, John?" Sherlock replied calmly.

"Well, that time you almost got your head blown off from the inside of a safe, for one. And that time the flat was nearly blown up to get to you. And-"

John completely lost his train of thought when he came into view of the kitchen, his pistol raised, and registered what had happened.

There was milk _everywhere. _Halfway up the fridge was the draining grey-white cow juice, as well as covering poor Mrs. Hudson's floral top and green skirt. The milk carton was on its side on the floor, still leaking some drops into the soon-to-be-stinky pool out of a tiny hole the size of a pea.

"_Sherlock!" _John cried, "I _told _you to be careful! Now we've got someone shooting up the place! Quick, get down! Call someone!"

And with that, John dived into a slide of milk, making a splat sound.

"Don't be silly, John," Sherlock calmly replied, beginning to dab milk from Mrs. Hudson's hair as she tried to convince him he didn't need to do so.

John's lips opened and closed like a fish before he spoke next. "What? Me, be silly?! Sherlock, YOU'RE the one who –"

A dark blush surfaced onto John's face and he bit his tongue.

"I'm the one who what, John?" he asked amusedly with his signature smirk.

"Uh… Nevermind…" he continued staring at the milk for a minute while trying to form coherent words, then began, "So what the bloody hell is going on here, anyway? I thought someone shot the milk and was aiming for you and-"

"Hush, John, you didn't _think. _That's your problem! No, it wasn't a _gunshot. _We would've heard that. Obviously, someone recognized Mrs. Hudson while she was in the grocery store, and while she wasn't looking, placed some tiny object into the side of her milk carton. Somehow the carton got dented and thus acquired enough pressure to explode like it did. As it turns out, it was an audio tracking device, which I have disposed of accordingly. The perpetrator was either very poorly trained or wanted to be found out. And seeing as there was an intact serial number on the device, we will find out soon enough."

By this time Mrs. Hudson had gone to her room to get changed, and John stared unblinkingly up at Sherlock in awe.

"Yeah, of course. _Obviously_," John said, rolling with sarcasm and distaste. (The distaste was for the feeling of being marinated in milk, and for making a fool of himself to begin with.)

While John was muttering to himself and taking apart his gun for the second time, Sherlock walked around the kitchen island to stoop down to John and his mess. John froze, slowly putting the gun parts away from the milk and trying to take deep breaths to still his increasing heart beat.

"I never thought I would see you covered in," Sherlock paused and put his hand in John's hair, "so _much _white fluid."

John spoke nervously and quickly in response, "But you _have_. Thought of it, that is. I bet you planned it all out or something, as some stupid joke. I mean, uh, _this_. I didn't mean, well uh, you know, _that _fluid –"

"But _I _did," Sherlock whispered through his small smile as he leant in to John's face.

John felt himself moving his face up to kiss him before a thought could even cross his mind. After a few seconds, Sherlock spoke; uncharacteristically a little out of breath.

"This milk accident was a good thing, John," he stated.

John stared at Sherlock, not realizing he was biting his lip.

"Hmnggph?" he mumbled.

"It gives me an excuse to take off your clothes."

There was a squelching noise as Sherlock and John moved up against each other, but neither paid much attention, for there were more pressing and hard-hitting problems to attend to.


End file.
